No One
by Rothelena
Summary: So good to be back! This is a tag for 4.24, it contains SPOILERS in case you haven't seen the episode yet! It's M-RATED for adult themes...what a surprise, huh?


_So many wonderful tags for 4.24! Is there an M-rated one yet? NOOOOOOOO? Absolutely can't have that, can we__**?**_

_Translation: this tag is M! Which means: there'll be sex. Not your cup of tea? Stop here, my friend!_

_Disclaimer: Bruno, you deceiving little rascal! It's yours. I should never have doubted you. Thanks for getting my muse back on track._

**No one**

Sometimes these days, Jane could feel his own heartbeat in every pore of his battered frame. He'd never wanted so much to be alive, and after all those years when he'd believed he would be better off dead, it still felt strange. He watched his Elvis-shaped spot on the ceiling. Home.

Warmth suffused him, clothed him like a soft, comfortable gown.

He tasted an odd mixture of emotions and swallowed carefully, needing to analyze everything that was him after having been so detached for the past six months. He was ashamed, relieved, elated to be home. So happy to hear Lisbon's firm steps on the hard wooden floor. She was still here, of course, long after dark had painted the city- some things just never changed. The thought made him smile until it hurt, and he felt the sweet, heavy desire he'd become used to since he'd seen her again in the church. It blasted through his heart like a firestorm, and he rubbed gently to make the pain ease up a bit.

He couldn't go to her feeling like this. For he still wasn't up to explaining what he'd done.

He knew the thought of him with Loralei had hurt Teresa, and he wished he could take the pain away. Wrap it up in a touch. Kiss it and make it better. But it wasn't possible- for he had slept with Loralei, and his reasons couldn't change the fact.

He could hardly imagine that night now. He only felt a cold fascination for the monster he had kissed.

He shuddered slightly, as if he tried to shake off the memory, but it seeped into his reality like blood from an open wound.

He had been gone from the CBI and his team leader's gentle warmth for six endless months at that time, he'd been broken, homeless and lonely, working hard to get Red John's attention, spreading lies about his rotten character until nobody wanted to talk to him any longer. He'd suffered endless humiliations, had been beaten and kicked and spent his nights alone in a dodgy motel room which made him feel like human dirt because it simply wasn't him. It wasn't his. It treated him like a stranger. Like waste.

He had tried to ban the loneliness by thinking brooding thoughts about his plan, Red John, his revenge. But all he had wanted was some human warmth- someone who smiled at him, made him feel welcome, didn't see a worthless piece of scum. He had whispered her name in the dark a million times. _Teresa. _Like a song on his lips. His memories of her all that had remained of home and security. He'd never known how much… he'd never known.

Loralei hadn't judged him- he snorted. Of course she hadn't… her character was a hundred times more evil than the one he'd showcased to the world, and her badness had tainted her from the beginning. He'd taken what she'd offered him, had played her game.

He'd realized long ago that she might be his ticket to Red John, she had been a means to an end, nothing else. He'd fed her what he needed to, making her take the bait.

But how could he explain this night to Teresa?

He heard her steps, slowly moving from her office to the breakfast area and back. Longing shot through him like a spell. He remembered holding her hand after he'd been saved. Loralei caught. Wainwright dead.

He'd been hurt and hyped up on adrenaline, cold and desperate, and all he could think about was touching her. Her hand had been warm and small, and she hadn't pushed him away. She never had.

He needed to touch her. As if a dam had been broken, the flood reinventing him, extinguishing everything he'd been before.

I love you, Teresa Lisbon. Please, PLEASE, hold me. Let me hold you.

But how could he explain that night to her?

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the burning behind his lids. He couldn't go on like this. He had to say something.

Before he could change his mind, he jumped up and walked to her office, driven by the urge to touch her, to be near her again. God, he had missed her.

But how could he explain that night?

xxMentalistxx

She had analyzed her hurt for hours, and she was fed up with it. She would simply stop wondering and take life as it was. She was hungry and tired and confused. Too out of it to fight any longer. She would accept what he could offer her. Holding his hand would be enough.

Who needed to know what they were feeling? Screw it. What was there, was there. Fine.

But when she saw him approaching, his beautiful face still showing the tiredness he obviously had carried around for a while now, the pain burst up like a flame. He had kissed the other one, had…no. She wouldn't go there. He was here. Loralei wasn't. What was there, was there.

But she couldn't smile at him, and it hurt to see the sudden wariness in his eyes, almost as if he were shy. Her door was open, and he stepped inside without knocking, looking at her. Not knowing what to say.

"You were lovers." She heard herself whisper.

She almost bit her tongue, cursing the words that had just tumbled out. She sounded like a jealous shrew, great.

Jane sighed. Damn, he was beautiful. She just needed to look at him, that would be enough. So why was she starting this discussion, almost as if she was just begging to be hurt some more? She didn't know how much more she could take, dammit.

"Well- in her sick, crazy, sadistic little loony-mind, what we had might qualify as love." He said slowly. "It certainly doesn't in mine."

"You had sex." Stop it, Teresa Lisbon. Just stop talking, and work on that smile. He's not yours, just because he made a heated comment in the spur of the moment and held your hand. So stop acting as if you have a right to feel hurt.

"Yes. " He murmured. "Sex."

Images crashed into her mind and she closed her eyes against the impact, tried to shut down this jealous, childish, needy part of her which wanted him for herself, wanted to own him, wanted him to make silly declarations of love and devotion until she could believe them.

"I would do anything to catch Red John, Lisbon." He said. "Anything- except hurting you. Physically- I know that emotionally, I hurt you all the time. I needed to get to him, and she was my gateway. What do you think she means to me after all she did, after all she is? Everything I said to you- has been the truth. I had missed you so, so much… damn, I sound like an idiot."

He turned away from her, and she felt the carefully contained tension in his body. He had lost some weight, hardly perceptible, but she had noticed. Her hands twitched. She wanted to push them into his hair, touch his face, his neck, bury her fingers in his chest. Scratch him. Lick him… oh my god, she was out of control.

When he faced her again, she saw anger and pain and… his eyes were almost glowing in the gloominess.

"Listen, Teresa," he pressed out, "I can't explain it away. I don't want to blabber like an unfaithful husband. I can't make the pictures vanish. I failed you. I had sex with her. Teresa, the moment I saw you in the church… I felt like myself again. For the first time in six months. And when you cursed at me…"

She saw a sad smile blossom on his features. Despite her desperation, it was pure, infectious. Lisbon felt her heart clenching like mad, feelings swirling through her mind, perfusing her trembling body until she felt dizzy. She wanted to laugh and cry, let everything out in a flash flood of emotions, but she forced herself to swallow the lump down, containing the heat deep inside her burning stomach.

"So hate me." Jane whispered. "I don't mind, I already know how that feels like."

"You know what my HATE feels like?" she breathed, her voice strangled, barely there.

And he saw it then, saw the myriad of images in her huge, glistening eyes, saw the symphony of feelings, saw the truth, the fear, the devotion, the sorrowful nights, the endless worries, despair and longing- love. He saw the love glowing in her forest green eyes, like a beacon luring him home.

"Hate me," he said, and his voice, gentle, velvety soft, felt like balm on her soul. "but, Teresa- don't leave me."

She wanted, needed to touch him, needed it so much her skin felt raw with desire, but somehow she couldn't instigate the contact. His smile told her he knew it, and how could he be so soft all over, his eyes, his smile, his voice, she could almost taste his lips although she never had, he seemed so close, so instantaneous, her hunger was like a wall she desperately needed to climb.

He came closer until his legs brushed her desk. He reached out and took her hand, carefully, as if he wanted to avoid scaring her.

"Love you, Teresa." He whispered.

"Don't." She croaked, tears already burning in her eyes.

"I do." He groaned. "I really do. Hold me. Make me feel warm, Teresa. I don't want to explain. Why can't this here be enough?"

He pressed her hand.

"I love you, Teresa." He breathed. "I do. There's no one as important as you. There's no one."

She got up slowly, felt her limbs unfolding. She walked around her desk, her hand still embedded in his, feeling his fingers flex under the slight pressure of her touch. She pressed harder. Stroked her thumb over the back of his hand, soft blond hairs tickling her skin.

"I love you." He whispered, over and over, and she pushed her free hand against his mouth to silence him, before she replaced her trembling fingers with her lips.

xxMentalistxx

She tasted like sunshine, like caramel ice cream and blissful safety, and he thought that this was more than enough, that he didn't need passion and fireworks and excitement, that she was everything he'd ever wanted, when suddenly, slowly, she pushed her hand under his shirt- and the sparks ignited so violently he almost doubled over. He was hard in seconds, red-hot want washing over him in a drowning flood of lust. He was shaking with ecstasy, moving his hips against hers to relieve some of the unbearable tension, silently begging her to come closer, closer, to crawl under his skin. Take residence inside his soul.

Her taste became addictive, her tongue sweet and hot when she answered his call and opened her lips under his relentless probing. Her name throbbed through his mind like an insistent heartbeat. _Teresa. Teresa. Teresa._

She ripped his shirt apart, her small hands so strong and insistent, and he shuddered when he felt her touch deleting everything else, replacing all memories with this, and he almost gasped with relief.

"More," he whispered urgently into her mouth, "more, Teresa."

He almost sobbed when her fingernails brushed his nipples, the sensation so intense he jumped slightly, yearning to drive out of his skin for her.

She kissed his jaw, his throat, her soft lips leaving a trail of sweetness on his parched skin. His mind stopped working, and he inhaled her essence into his lungs like an addict. Filled himself up with her until there was no space left for anything else. No one for him but her.

"Patrick." She whispered, and time stood still.

Every heartbeat like a detonation. Pleasure filling his cells to the core. Her jeans tight while his slacks slid over his hips as soon as she'd opened his belt and fly. They fought against their clothes, ripping seams in their urge to get more, get deeper, get completely.

Her naked skin was cool against his blazing body, she was thin, he could feel the delicate structure of her bones when he engulfed her in his embrace, bold and brazen, pushing his rock hard erection into her stomach. She had lost substance grieving for him, and he was deeply ashamed that he'd taken from her, almost eaten up the only thing that had been pure and good and beautiful in his empty life for this past decade.

He hummed while he showered her face with kisses, felt control returning when her hands trailed the contours of his body, awakening the numb mass of flesh and muscle until he was aflame, more alive than he'd felt in years. Laughter bubbled up in his throat, strangled into a low murmur of satisfaction when his arousal exploded through the roof. Her soft breasts pressed against his chest, and a shiver traveled through his soul like an electric current.

He let his hands slide over her buttocks and lifted her, pushing her against the wall, sending the window panes and drawn metal blinds rattling with the force of his actions. He wanted to apologize for his roughness, wanted to be careful and gentle like his guardian angel deserved, but all rational thought fled his mind when her fingernails scratched his back.

"Patrick." She whispered, wrapping her legs around his hips, and the worthless bum he'd been vanished into nothingness.

It felt surreal when he slid into her, finding a haven of heat and bliss in her depths, panting into her face, until he almost couldn't draw air any longer, hyperventilating with relief and hunger and love, and she kissed him deeply, breathing into him, shushing him until the sharp prickling under his skin subsided into a warm, throbbing tingle.

He could feel her heartbeat in the place where they were joined, her sheath pulsing against his hardness, fast, relentless, and he groaned when he started to thrust, his mind whispering to him that he was here, with her, that this wasn't a cruel fantasy bound to leave him weak and unfulfilled. She was the only one truly able to love him. There was no one else but her.

He picked up speed and tried to swallow his cries, but he found he couldn't, needing a release for the murderous tension coursing through his body. He would burst, explode like a supernova. She kissed him and drank the noise of his passion as good as she could, and he pumped harder, pounding into her now, she was tight and hot, engulfing him completely, the panes rattled whenever he pushed back home, made her his, and she cried into his mouth before her core clenched all around him, almost making him lose his balance.

She came hard, writhing in his embrace until he felt his stomach growing taut like marble, and he knew he wouldn't last much longer. His world erupted in a veil of sheer red, and his seed shot into her, more and more until it felt as if he'd spent every ounce of fluid in his system. He groaned so loud that he was afraid the whole building would hear him, but a part of him just didn't care, wanted more, wanted to stay like this until he would starve in her arms.

His muscles hurt from holding her upright all the time, and he realized he'd clutched her hips hard enough to leave bruises. She was panting, her eyes glassy and wet and so beautiful. Moss under his feet, the velvety softness cushioning every step. He didn't bleed any longer and understood that she had so much more to give than he did. What could he do? Which gift was great enough to repay what she gave without hesitation?

He slowly put her down, holding her until he was sure she could stand on her own trembling legs, inhaling sharply when he slid out of her in the process. She let her gaze wander over his naked body, warm and loving like a caress. Her fingers followed, nourishing him until he pulsed everywhere. His only companion. Always worthy of his trust, but worth so infinitely much more.

She slowly walked to her couch and pulled him with her, pushing him down until he lay on his back, and he almost gasped when his utter exhaustion registered. He felt as if he hadn't slept for days, but he smiled when she walked to her discarded clothes to get her cellphone, setting the alarm so they wouldn't be surprised by their co-workers in the morning. He just sighed in bliss when she slid her tiny body on top of his and covered them both with a blanket, her dark hair fanning out over his chest, and he pushed his hands into the rich softness, letting the silky strands slide through his fingers.

She was so much more perfect than he could ever hope to be, and suddenly he felt lacking again, impure and tainted.

"About Loralei…" he whispered, but she interrupted him with a kiss.

"No," she said into his mouth, "she happened before you were mine."

It wasn't true. He'd always been Lisbon's, since the moment he'd made the origami frog for her. But he felt wanted, worthy, home in her arms, and the feeling was so complete that he simply stopped talking, letting his kisses transport the message for him. Everything fading into the pulsating closeness between them, until he pushed into her again, their combined passion rising to full blaze in seconds.

"I love you, Patrick." She breathed.

And his answering smile was bright enough to fight the darkness.

The End

_Okay, so far from me. Hope you liked it! I feel very inspired at the moment, and I always write easier off-season, so I'm sure there's more to come. Thanks for reading, my amazing friends!_


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